KENRON
It’s the third napkin I almost toss without thinking.
End of a long shift. The kind where the heat clings to your bones and the air tastes like charred basil and blistered oil. I’m elbow-deep in closing duties, scrubbing down a prep table, trying to ignore the way silence settles into the bones of the restaurant once the crowd clears.
I reach for a scrap of cloth to wipe down a smudge—and pause.
Not a scrap. A napkin. Folded too neatly. Too square. And light enough that something rustles inside.
My brow knots. I almost chuck it into the bin when I spot the edge—pale green. Not from our stash. No creasing from the wash press. Handmade. It smells faintly of citrus and ink.
My fingers still.
I unfold it.
A letter. Inked by hand. The strokes are crisp but slightly uneven, like the writer tried to keep her hands from shaking.
And then I see it. Her handwriting. That exact loop on the "K," that too-straight line on the "t."
Kristi.
The world narrows to the paper in my hands. The heat of the kitchen vanishes. I don’t even feel my own breath.
She didn’t send a message.
She left a letter.
I flatten it on the table like it might crumble if I move too fast. I read. The first lines hit like punches under the ribs.
Nanites. Non-human protocols. Directive Echelon.
It’s a goddamn bioweapon.
I stagger a step back and grip the prep table. I can hear my blood in my ears. Not the dull roar of rage. Not yet. This is quieter. Deadlier. Like the moment before a pressure cooker explodes.
She knew.
She knew what they were planning. She went looking. Alone.
And now she’s planning to stop it.
The breath I’ve been holding breaks free in pieces. My hand's shaking. I clench the letter tighter. Read again. Her words are raw. Precise. Not a single plea for forgiveness. Just a firelit trail of everything she’s uncovered.
And a promise to burn for it.
My father's voice breaks through the haze. “You done staring at ink, or you gonna say something?”
I turn slowly. He’s leaning in the doorway like he’s been there a while. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.
“She found something,” I say, my voice rough.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what paper means. You wanna tell me the rest?”
I hand him the letter. He reads slower than me. Steadier. Doesn’t flinch at the phrase “species-specific inhibition.” Just folds the paper when he’s done and sets it gently on the counter.
“She’s either brave,” he mutters, “or foolish.”
I drag a hand over my face. “She’s both.”
